Several times I went some days with a droving plant. The Drover was the Uncle of a friend. In fact all of us helping, but me, were related. That’s how that family flourished, one in, all in. He was a good boss too, that Uncle, if evening meals are the test for that. You can include drinks, laughs, and company in that test.
I rode a tractor, a grey Fergie with a tow bar. That was pretty much it. Every morning there were two caravans to move up to a lunch time stop. There were 4 single axle trailers, some loaded with mobile yards, others with fridges and freezers, generators, compressors, tyres, petrol and oil. Two trailers had water tanks that required locating and pumping water into them as sheep drinks. All of these wheeled vehicles were moved by me. Hook up, travel, unhook, travel back, hook up – you getting it now?
The drovers, the real ones I guess, rode motor bikes.
Single cylinder small motor bikes that started and ran for 10 minutes then stayed quiet for 20 minutes. This was a heat up cool down cycle the Uncle enforced. Your bike cooled and the others putt-putted as they could. Motorbikelessness meant you walked the wing for some minutes, holding the mob on an established fence while they ambled over the ground, stopping to pick at leisure.
These were stud ewes, a foundation flock to establish a mob when, not if, the drought allowed this. The rams were up the road, waiting, having been trucked in to pick and chew what grass there was left.
The stock route had not been used as such for many years, considered to be 20 or more as told by the pastoralists we ran against on the trip. Those men had sold off their flock when the weather stayed dry. It was a time of fence building, shed painting, something other than farming because they couldn’t.
There was just no rain. The rivers and creeks were full.
The flock was counted most days. They over nighted in an enclosure sometimes formed by a property fence on one side and our own gates and panels as a barrier to movement. They were not crushed in there but in the late afternoon the sheep would find a camp, below a hill top, in the trees some where out of the wind, of course out of the rain because that wasn’t happening, and 4 sheep spaces for each to enable turning standing and settling. Good digs.
The plant did not have sufficient mobile fencing to completely enclose the mob. Then two of us stood, or rather, sat and watched the mob overnight. We changed over shifts at 0300. That way worked.
Sheep did die. Some matrons passed on, or correctly were euthanased by the Drover and his rifle to prevent them suffering.
The contract was to move 5 miles each day. This could be up to 8 miles and this was to get into better ground ahead. Often we met other mobs and went through them.
The Drover went ahead in the morning and selected a lunch spot to make with a yellow tarpaulin. I bought all the gear up to that place then went to fill up the tanks from a tank (dam) or at an agreed spot at a creek. The Drover rode through the area ahead looking for obvious poison plants or areas of care (farm dogs usually). The leading drover did the same. He had the point normally but went off, over and around the oncoming ground looking for poison or problems.
Driven sheep move ahead in a frantic dart to the next plant to eat, then pick and chew all of that and get passed by other sheep looking for their next plant to pick and chew. 10 miles might be a natural travel distance for them.
There was plenty of sheep food but it was losing it nutritional value day by day. It seems that plants peak then fall off the peak over 4 weeks. We were at week 6. We were not eating out the countryside either.
The Drover left us and went off to do his jobs, some of that was buying food for tea perhaps.
When he returned he could assess the mob movement and make lunch for all. Then take off again and chose the night camp and mark that spot with a yellow tarpaulin. I would move vans and trailers up to that spot then work at droving for several hours to allow those who had watched the mob in the early morning could snooze for several hours. There was probably no sleep debt but there was disturbed sleep.
The Drover cooked tea, hogget in a pot if there was two hours cooking or typically a bbq. Everybody cleaned their own utensils, made their own bed, packed and readied their personal items. Everybody had a bed in a van (7 beds) but some slept outside anyway.
The toilet was way over there, with a shovel. There was water for washing, not bathing. If a flowing creek was encountered (often) then you could wash in that. You got an hour a day for things like that, although it was reading a comic most often.
I had to go back to school on the two occasions I did droving. The Drover was involved with this mob for over 12 months. He walked them up to the Queensland border and returned twice. Getting staff was an issue. Twice the mob got held and walked over an unused railway reserve after checking with the neighbouring sheepmen. They would want this withering grass for their own sheep. Sometimes a station sheep yard was used to draught and inspect the flock, count and check the tags.
The flock owner came out to us on a weekly basis. He had supplementary income being a dam sinking contractor. He was a diviner. He could locate water in the sub surface by sensing it. Really?
Perhaps it gurgles everywhere under there. That’s me saying that.
There were three dogs, Imp and Marilyn, and an unnamed pup learning the art. They had several commands, push, back, wide, stop. Only one person spoke and directed them. He whistled to make them turn and look, then pointed when they were watching him so the message got heard and seen. You shouldn’t befriend working dogs, meaning be friendly to them when working. Perhaps this is unique to Imp and Marilyn. Both of them came to me, wriggling in recognition when I stopped the tractor and took a turn at droving. Sometimes they ignored their duties just to stand for a pat and a brush.
The dogs are chained up out near the sheep when camped. I didn’t see this but when some villages were passed by the droving the village dogs would try to interact with the mob. These were town dogs for sure. The attacking dogs were scared off, of course. No collar. Bang. Bang again.
Marilyn is a favourite for many reasons, longevity foremost. She worked the back point, sweeping the sheep into a line ahead but was first into the shade when we stopped. I made her collar at school.
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